Author: Norman Eric Peterson

Trust

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Who do you trust? Have you ever trusted anyone with your life? It’s a wondrous release from fear! Quite some time ago, I was at sea. My ship was massive. Over 600 feet long, 35 feet from the plimsoll line to the keel, 30 feet high to where I was stationed. Pretty big beam too. Somewhere beyond 60 feet wide. Huge ship with two props and 8 million gallons of various fuels. Bunker oil, JP4 aviation, gasoline. An AO class fleet oiler, biggest in the fleet.

Late at night, down below laying on my bunk, I was rocked to sleep and the deck was warm. As the ship would take a slow roll, the oil below would move from port to starboard and back again. A gentle whoosh sound, much akin to the waves washing a beach. The oil was heated with steam pipes and remained very fluid, thus the warm deck. In winter sleep was achieved as soon as your eyes closed. Safe, secure and steaming towards a port over the horizon. In the middle of the sea. (When all land is unseen, you always seem to be in the middle of the ocean. )

Awakening with the CP4 announcement speaker lifted the delightful warmth and sounds quickly away. The high whistle of the bosun’s pipe was our only alarm clock followed by, “Reveille, reveille all hands turn to and trice up, sweepers, man your brooms full sweep-down fore and aft. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized places. Now reveille, reveille” Obviously I have never forgotten that alarm clock.

I like the memory of the sound of the bosun’s pipe in my mind. As a musician, I harbor certain notes, forever. A quick sweep up with a slow drop back down. No one every figured out what a clean sweep down was. Something to do with old wood decked ships.

After a long time steaming, an illusion sometimes comes that the ship is standing still. There is a current streaming by the bow. Nothing changes, the pounding of the props and the flutter from the signal flags up on the 05 level. The water streaming by seems to be a big river, making the bow wave. It’s easier at night and you can see the fluorescent wake.

There is a powerful radar constantly circling above the third deck (03 level) and the signalmen who work up there are are told, if they ever want children, they are to stay away from that radar dish.

Danger came now and then to the huge ship in the form of other ships alongside. Hooked up with large hoses, often on each side. Pumping that fuel into their bunkers as everyone watched their heading and also moving as fast as possible to keep flight ops on the carrier beside them. The carrier was always on the port side (left). That nuclear powered carrier loafing along while our ship was at flank speed and the mess decks would shake in the stern when our powerful props broke the surface.

Once, when the ship was refueling a carrier on the port, and a ‘tin can’ (destroyer) on the right, a fishing boat came in sight dead ahead. Three huge ships, incapable of quick turning with all the hoses and rigging, we just came at that boat at flank speed. That boat passed between us and the destroyer, bouncing side to side and It just spit out at the wake of the ships. It was still afloat with what seemed like a dazed fisherman gazing back at those three huge ships just moving away from him. He was blessed, that’s certain. What a story back at Ville’ France, the fishing boats home port.

There were no ‘fiddle rails’ on the mess deck tables, so the men would put four slices of bread under their trays and then keep their food on the table. Extra work for the baker who’s oven was too hot. Way Soft bread. Norm had to explain when the lieutenant in charge of the mess deck asked him rather briskly why he took the bread just to toss it away. The galley window had a garbage can filled with bread. “Everyone does it Sir, it holds your tray from sliding off to the deck.” ‘Oh, I see’ said the LT. Not too much later, the oven got repaired the bread was pretty good. Then in rough seas, the clatter of an aluminum tray would occasionally ring out along with good humored laughter.

In the midst of a cruise, the big oiler became engulfed in a hurricane. Reeling and rocking with waves seen high above the second deck where our radio division worked. That’s about thirty feet over the water. Craning their necks, the guys in the communication division figured the waves were at least another thirty feet above them.

All hands were then in the skills of the captain and the navigator/quartermaster above, on the bridge. I was afraid and suddenly realized I trusted the old, crusty captain and my fear and worry were unnecessary. Would it help to be worried? Released from my fear, myself and my mates had a contest see which one of them would lean closest to the deck with their pea coats open and catching the wind. I won with a good 30+ degrees before I hit the deck.

Meanwhile, the deck apes were down below the main deck which was open with railings. They had secured themselves with small stuff (Navy jargon for what we call ropes) and they were just washing around down there having fun in their own way. Crazy. Another way to deal with fear.

Now, later in life, I put my trust in the Creator of my soul, King and Rescuer. It took me quite some time to realize, once again, my life was known and protected by our Captain. The course is laid in and station keeping true. Faith and trust and our Captain’s love takes the fear away. He always takes time to tell us that He will never leave us. He is for us, not against us. He is for you, He is for you.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Men In Black Productions

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 2 Comments

They are almost invisible, very much so on a web stream broadcast. They move about, trailing thick expensive cables back and forth in their wakes. Appearing to be special force units with communication gear attached to their heads. Obviously someone is telling them what to do and where to go, but what is it they are doing? There are more of them than you can easily see.

Before the service there is a ‘huddle’ at ‘front of house’ (control booth in the sanctuary that controls sound and lights) We gather and share, musicians and techs to solidify and encourage one another. Of course, there is prayer from the worship band leader. It is a very important bonding for those who do their best at presenting Jesus Christ in song to the audience. It is not an opera or a performance. It is a privilege to do so. There is pay for some that work 5 days or so a week setting and rehearsing it all. The camera operators and some techs are volunteers. The best pay for all of us is His presence.

Trolley cameras run on tracks and do those smooth side to side shots just above the audience view. It really helps those watching engage in the worship. There are separate grips at the ends of the track to stop it and push it. That grip job is an excellent class on momentum and velocity. Hand held (often on one’s shoulder) move around and can catch momentary shots of the musicians or their instruments. The director instructs operators where to look, sometimes at the audience that are engaging and worshiping.

Big ‘Jib’ cameras with large booms and complex controls do those impossible flying shots but can focus closely on a keyboard. Those cameras have ‘fences’ around them to prevent people from being hit by the wide range of movement by the operator. Complex camera operation.

Tripod cameras are elevated on platforms and are a real asset too. Sometimes there are remote cameras that are run with a joystick by the director or switcher. They can zoom in and out and swivel. It’s all a’ bit more complex’ compared to the usual cameras we use in our cell phones. It is always distracting when people hold their cell phones up to capture a performance. I wonder if they are really engaged with what is going on before them. A small 8 millimeter would not be quite so intrusive but of course, as a technical dinosaur I have opinions on progress and regress.

Leave video tasks up to the men in black. They have time afterwards to be moved by the totality of the production. A review in the room of a recent set shows the crew how to improve the experience for the viewers so there is nothing seen or felt besides the worship. Working on video production is a thing that can distract from the reasons they are there in the first place. They help Convey story, and the story of Jesus beauty can often be accompanied by tears and spiritual engagement to the audiences. There are ‘huddles’ before every service at ‘front of house’ (control of sound and lights) In the sanctuary to encourage and bond production teams. Prayer is essential at those times as well. Almost akin to the ready room in the military.

Hand held, Jib, tripods all have their positions and are numbered through the comms everyone has. Those Cameras are heavy and very complex. There is a director in touch with them and exact instructions are given as to what to capture, how close and the next shot to prepare for. It’s a choreographed dance. A lot of training and experience for both sides of the production. There are ‘grips’ that make certain the camera operators do not trip nor step on the fiber optic cables that send the video feed, in the control room there are aperture operators that control iris settings, lyrics panels that are just for the screens to show words. It’s fast and fascinating to listen to. Timing and broadcast (simulcast) adds to the complexity.

As with many technical occupations, there is shorthand and acronyms. ME mixed effects, SHADER is a control panel that adjusts camera aperture, MI, musical interlude, Load the band, CP campus Pastor, PUSH go closer with the camera control. I like ABLETON controlled by the drummer to add a CLICK track to the other musicians which sounds a click in the IEM’s they wear to keep everyone on beat (IEM is an in ear monitor) This is a beginning list and at first sounds like another language which it is.

So many sounds bouncing around that must be accounted for and the volumes are carefully set. There is a handheld unit that measures that as a sound tech walks through the room during rehearsal. ( It’s called an SPL sound level pressure.) It’s all highly technical. The control rooms and electronics remind you of Houston’s launch control for spacecraft. Blinking lights and fast button pushing and many screens for each person. Of course, the only sign of failure is an audience confused and the sound booth failure joke is; An audience looking backwards towards the the booth. They know who is screwing up.

The main reason the camera folks are dressed in black is to not be visible on the video feed. The camera iris is quickly set for different light situations and most of the people on the stage are dressed in lighter colors. The lights show those video shots so they can be seen by the viewers. As a result, black does not bounce back (it absorbs light). You can see them if you look for them but it isn’t a distraction on the whole. The lighting is another job that works with the director.

The audio for broadcast is another technical job. That audio engineer that controls the ‘in house’ experience. You can only imagine the electronics, cabling, simulcast and internet connections to be set up and tested every day. One day events involve semi-trailers of equipment and adds a lot of work to those teams. At many churches, many of the team are volunteers and do not get paid for this work. They do it for the joy and camaraderie.

Another volunteer is a time traveler. The job is to be an assistant to the director. The music rehearsal is listened to a half dozen times before hand and the assistant director charts which instrument, and singers are in a certain part of the music. There are soft sections and loud crescendos. Then all that assistant has to do is tell the director and the camera operators which shot is the best depiction of the musicians. Before it happens. 4 bars beforehand, gives everyone time to literally focus on the next solo or high point (or ending soft or quickly) Stage lighting is a factor as well.

the director tells the camera operators what shot is indeed coming up and also when their shot is being broadcast to the screens in house. All the camera operators and other control people have headsets with microphones to help them be part of the dance. It’s beautiful and often breathtaking when it comes together.

The main campus that broadcasts throughout the world has the most precise and skilled media teams. It’s called ‘simulcast’ and if you watch on-line, that is the music you see.

The director sees all the camera shots on separate screens, selects and instructs movement and image constantly. “One push, ready 1, take 1, Four push right, take 4, Five push cymbals, take 5.” As fast as you can read this. Things speed and slow according to the songs. Verse, pre-chorus-chorus. bridge. The sound pushes up to emphasize the chorus as the room gets intense with singing praise to Jesus.

It’s not manipulation, It’s invisible and correct and if done right, no one watching is aware of the team doing this. It is energy, very much the same thing that broadcast and movie directing use. Tell the story and no one thinks about it that is watching. That is a good as it gets. The director gives a brief “great shot” over the comm line now and then and that is very well received. Augustine stated “teaching is essential, praise is sweetness but persuasion is victory”

There is a lot more to production. It’s fascinating and now you know why the team is called ‘the men in black.’ Not seen but essential. It has nothing to do with agent K and J.

“My own eyes are not enough for me. I will through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many is not enough. I will see what others have invented…literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege of individuality. In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself…I may be full of goodness and good sense but still inhabit a tiny world. If I was content to be only myself, and therefore less of a self, I am in prison.” a.

It’s pretty good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

picture courtesy of Bjorn Peterson, my son, at a One Thing Conference with a hand held camera.

a. C.S. Lewis An experience in criticism

Local Lingo and Accents

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It’s something that comes naturally, growing up locally or even relocating and adapting here.

You’ve used these phrases and everyone around you has such as: “how’d she go dis weekend? Ya get out and get anything?” or “ s’hat new boat easy to launch?” Didge yah go up nort to the lake wit da fam to da cabin or just chill and cook out?” “ Hews she goin? Ya look a little foofed.

It’s perfectly normal and not even noticed unless you are just up from Chicago. Relatives that own a new cabin just around our neighborhood up here. Wisconsin actually has more than ten thousand lakes and the traffic is astounding around weekends. Especially the three day ones on holidays that fall conveniently on Friday or Monday.

I count the out of state license plates just for conversation at interstate bridge highways and on this last three dayer there were a hundred vehicles in rows bumper to bumper separated by quarter mile gaps. Usual comments from us about drivers getting ahead on the double yellow by a few cars. I call it ping ponging. Rushing and getting a few seconds ahead game that we play with anxiety and some skill depending if you are quick enough and like to take chances

On the times I am passed by anxious drivers I hold my breath to avoid the inevitable unburned hydrocarbon emissions from catalytic converter overloads, especially from older Buick’s and pickups that do not display led taillights as new stuff. Oh well, we used to make a lot of money replacing those things and erasing the inevitable check engine lights from the mixture fails of over loaded oxygen sensors.

As I have quoted a few times from C.S. Lewis: “Rushing is not of the devil, it IS the devil” some writers capitalize devil, I don’t, he isn’t worth it, it’s not a ‘proper’ name.

Nowadays I pray after laughing when someone passes me and a quarter mile ahead turns off. Sometimes I count the seconds saved and that really generates humor and puzzlement.

Relax, soon we get to relax with the man who is more alive than any man has ever been. We can watch the universe unfold and drift away and still be alive with him.

“Eternity’s eternal song, is calling to me, calling me home.” Misty Edwards

It’s pretty good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Dancing Alone, Written During the Covid Debacle

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I wrote and copy-wrote a song decades ago when I thought the world was my burger to devour (with fries) and songwriting and performing were my destiny. Only the title of the song now makes perfect sense in the situations we have found ourselves in. Anxiety, fear and restlessness abound.

{Dancing alone.} The original column was written during the Covid19 scare and so called pandemic. Most of us remember the dystopian and totalitarian government actions during that time. The death tolls were not even close to the Spanish flu. None of the draconian measures worked. Masks, isolation, closing everything except for big box groceries and bars. The vaccine did not work either. What a disaster.

We were indeed dancing about. Whizzing down the road, against all declarations of our leaders.

Going somewhere, anywhere, just to once again be free to go somewhere. It didn’t work. Coming home to safety without the plague hitchhiking on us, we did the usual things. Make supper, get the parlor stove laid in and lit. Do the family business out in the shop, get ready for planting and go to one of the few shops down the road deemed necessary by the government. What? We can’t gather with our friends and worship the living God?

We can’t, we can’t, we should not. We are in danger, we are all in danger under a death threat as is the whole planet. Inconceivable! But we accede and say, As you wish. Those who resisted and kept their restaurants open were prosecuted and fined an absurd amount. Especially in Minnesota.

I felt so much disconnect with almost everyone on the planet except a handful or so. The imposed oddness, the imprisonment before imminent execution as we read about in scripture and history. The comfort of my cell, even driving in our car. A cell with bars, not bars of signal from Verizon

I felt the shrug of being rapidly passed. Don’t look at me, don’t get close to me. The hurtling shopping carts filled with toilet paper. Don’t don’t don’t. Please wear a disguise around your face for I know you fear me as I fear you.  Social distancing which our head of CDC at the highest level told us was useless and just made up. Six feet apart. Six feet under. Make your choice while fully masked. The masks were ridiculous and actually caused carbon dioxide buildups and not prevent a 5 micron virus with the 24 micron mask materiel used. Fake news? Reality? The Matrix is a documentary, I just heard it on Fox News.

 Shop till you drop dead and we’ll send the wooden cart for you. Wear the white or yellow or blue mask, it won’t help. Those helped you feel how I felt about you. Isolated and confused. Fearing the plague.

With due reverence, but very plainly, let it be said that God can do nothing for the man with shut hand and shut life. There must be an open hand and heart and life through which God can give what He longs to. An open life, an open hand, open upward, is the pipe line of communication between the heart of God and this poor be-fooled old world.

…S.D. Gordon (1859-1936), 

I am stretching out, looking fondly upon memories of freedom I fought for in the military. My leaders for this time are many and none of them make any sense to me. It is a dream forgotten as I stumble in the dark at 1 in the morning to the bathroom. Walk back to bed and actually try to remember the power and lack of it in my dream. It’s gone with a few remembered scenes. A mission of sorts, confusion and almost palpable in my real life.

The blue pill or the red pill. Got to remember at least to take my pills in the morning. I look upon my desk when I awaken later and cast my eyes upon books, journals and the book with all the answers if I would just open it and read. Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, we are weak but He is strong.

Indeed, I am not dancing alone. I am never alone and David knew this as he danced before the King of Kings thousands of years ago.

It’s pretty good, Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

Stiff Eaton Collars and high school songs

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Photo of a wood waste basket I made in shop class in 1960

This late spring morning as I was making our bed, I began humming my high school rally song. “Fight for dear old Henry High” I called an old classmate and had a great conversation. We went deep which was a pleasure. The school has now been renamed and the involved people wanted to name it after Prince the rock star. It didn’t happen due to my old friend who intervened.

The memories meanwhile, flooded in and Ken and I talked a long while with my cell phone on the kitchen table, volume up high with the mic turned over the table edge. An illuminating chat and went far deeper than I thought it would. Similar eye surgeries, stacks of books at hand near our chairs in the living room type of connections.

The title of this column refers to the memories of my favorite author, C.S. Lewis. Preparatory schools with all the unpleasant clothing and such for him. It’s universal among us all. We remember the odd things about those 12 or 16 years. Everyone tried to overcome the isolation and angst that came with education in a public school. The clubs, the teams of athletics and the clicks that we were part of or not. Competition for high grades or outrageous behavior. I was a combination of geek and outrageous. Harley chopper and lecturing on Einstein’s theory of relativity in physics class. Trying to fit in somewhere.

It didn’t help that my mother was the assistant principals secretary either. A connection to power and influence. Plutonium residue upon my prescience. I had three friends and sold my motorcycle to one of them after high school. It would be worth five figures or so today. Hundred bucks and I needed money to get to the exciting town of San Diego. At least I took my briefcase and slide rule with to there.

A rather interesting story that is found in the archives of this website. Auto biography of Norm chapter 2 gives more detail of this adventure.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Letter Writing and Reading

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There is a loss in our communities that seems like a gain! The texting phenomenon has made writing letters obsolete and to many, cheaper and faster. Pen and Ink started to loose ground when the typewriter was introduced. The expense of ink wells, and ink stains was replaced with typewriter ribbons and skill.

I learned to touch type in the military and I got fast. Electric typewriters and carbon paper worked well. With top secret letters there were no carbon copies allowed. Now there is a new skill, typing on the screen of a cell phone. I have not embraced typing with both thumbs while holding a phone. I am fascinated and irritated at our civilization that has become hunched over while walking or standing, holding ‘the phone’ and writing and reading letters of sorts. Texting along with fun emojis and video clips. How about a three pound Bakelite model? I remember our bag phone and of course, my hand held Amateur radio. The ham radio did not need a phone number to talk to someone. A call sign worked but many times the beginning message was; CQ anyone there?

What I am getting around to is the act of writing and reading. Sitting down quietly while doing so.

I love to write and these columns are much easier to type with Word Press as it checks my spelling and syntax as I type. I have a short term memory issue, often real short time when I am physically writing a word and leave off a letter and skip on to the next one. Leaving off a vowel for instance. I can see my mistake and the software catches it and shows it to me. But that is a byline for this column, I revere actual writing with pen or pencil and using a stamp and an envelope to have USPS deliver my letter.

The major point is keeping in touch, not speedily but with intent beyond the rush of our current lives. “Rushing in not from the devil, it Is the devil” I believe that impatience is included. C.S. Lewis

I have sent a few letters lately to some friends. Some of which I have not seen nor heard from in decades. Several of them have never been answered although I know they were received because they were not returned with address unknown or such postal information. Phone calls work too but we are usually in a rush and an unexpected phone call from a friend of years past is surprising and hard to respond to if you are driving or setting down to lunch in a cafe. I like re-reading and even have a manila envelope for personal letters. It’s good. Phone numbers are passe. There used to be a book called a phone directory. They were hanging by a chain in phone booths. The is no cell phone directory hanging there.

Is there someone you send letters to and wonder if they will ever answer? There is also a very important type of letter that is spoken in private! These letters are referred to as prayer. It’s just me and the Lord alone and I tell Him how things are going and ask questions and have requests too. If my heart is calm and I am speaking in truth and love, I know my prayer is being heard. Peaceful and knowing and feeling His presence.

Often it seems my prayers have not been answered. The way I wanted them to be. Healing, provision for me or someone else. There is also the conversion to faith of someone that I have known a long time or just met. Evangelism. God hears these requests and stretches out his mighty arm and strong right hand and fulfills that prayer. Instantly in many ways we do not see and is always a perfect response from Him. Prayer is essential for all of us. Letters to the lover of our souls.

Someone obviously prayed for me to reach out to Christ, years ago, decades. It happened just the way it was supposed to happen. Why did it take so long? I have no idea and there is no answer until I read the book about me that no one this side of eternity can read. As C.S. Lewis says: “Every chapter is better than the last one you read”

“What is truth?” An old question that goes back to Mars Hill in Greece. Also the original question in the garden. “Did god really say?” Also the question that Pilate asked Jesus a few thousand years back. Jesus did not answer as the Truth was standing right in front of Pilate.

He knew this question of all philosophers as an educated citizen of Rome. Pilate spoke and wrote in Greek, Latin and Hebrew. He wrote the sign above Jesus on the cross. In those 3 languages.A letter posted for all to see throughout history. ‘Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews’ . Some of the locals disagreed and Pilate said what I have written stands.

The very gift of God will be all we need to keep sending those prayers/letters to him. I know so little of these things but I rely on that gift that gives me peace and confidence that my prayers are heard. Faith.

Do you ever wonder what happens when someone you know or someone you just met, says “I’ll pray about it” Do we follow through? I used to fudge it and forget the promise within a short period of time. Those four words were a dismissive phrase for me. Not anymore. I am growing up and taking responsibility for my life and the things I say and do. There is so little time left for me, and for you.

I was on an official Prayer team at a very large church that seats over 2000 people and we were told to stand in front of them just as the service had ended and with lanyards that said prayer, be available to anyone that came ahead. I loved it. Many times no one came, but the few that did are sharp in memory.

I had to be vetted and interviewed to be on that team and that is very correct to do so. You can surmise the interviews that took place. The teams prayed a lot and I learned how to do so from them.

I am now in production at that church, media, and I also love that. Presenting the songs to the room as messages of praise to the Lord right then and there. The professional musicians know that it is much more than having a good time or playing a good song. We all sing with them and we get to touch eternity.

It’s pretty good. Norm/ Jack

The Cocoon and Rebirth

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It seems so long ago that the Re-birth occurred for me. An epiphany is a good description or a sudden awareness of being (that one sounds new age) This event was sudden but had many events and a ‘cocoon’ before it occurred. I wrote about it in the column, ‘Consuming Fire Fan into Flame”.

The back story was an escape from hibernation, a cocoon that I did not see nor notice. I was swaddled up comfy in my life of sorts before the re-birth. You have read some of those stories as well. They are all true. There is one thing about a cocoon that is necessary, growth and strength acquisition. It is common and I saw one last spring, it was hanging beneath a milk weed leaf. A place where a Monarch butterfly was taking shape.

Dangling from that leaf, built by a worm that crawled up and used it’s spit to anchor itself. It spun the chrysalis (another name for cocoon) somehow. It’s called metamorphosis and the study can be described as such. A good word would be a scientific focused study on the metamorphic process’? One such study answered the question: “Is it painful for the butterfly?” Through extensive electric wave analysis on an oscilloscope, it was determined that it was not painful. Go ahead and chuckle at that one.

The same folks that track the emotions of carrots that know you are coming to yank it out of the ground. I don’t even want to know what that would see in me. More later on that. my growth was very painful but also necessary. You don’t need an oscilloscope to see that.

To get on with the epiphany I experienced, just thinking about that monarch’s life was stunning enough.

Why was it designed that way? And the pivotal evidence seen, was the gold ring around the very top of the chrysalis. Small gold dots, perfectly spaced and a very strong message indeed is there, if we choose to look at it.

First off, what do we usually associate with gold rings? Marriage and crowns for honor. A king or a Queen. Soon enough, the chrysalis splits open and the Monarch begins to emerge. Can you even imagine what process this is? The wings fully developed and folded up like a plane in the hanger of an aircraft carrier, just waiting for the freedom of flight.

How does this miracle of transformation apply to us? I have found myself just trying out those wings I was given not too long ago. Wings that not only speak freedom but purpose and direction. A flight path, a sudden internal gyro that stabilizes my glide path or flapping through this short life I have been given. It seems short when many decades cruise by with the longing for something more.

We have been built and created for something more. We hunger for it. We do everything in our power and wisdom to live as long as possible, but it is only vanity to grasp the wind. As we grasp at the wind, the astonishing thing is an answer to that hunger for more. A meaning and purpose and beauty that we, in our chrysalis have been waiting for. Eternity to wear that gold crown and hang out with the creator of all and gaze upon His glorious splendor as he grasps us and gives us the crown, as we gaze upon the beauty of real treasure, Him.

The story and promise of crowned beauty beyond description. If we wish this transformation with all our heart, soul, and spirit, the treasure will be ours forever. It’s pretty good. Norm aka Jack Gator

Motorcycle Pilgrimage 5

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

My back was not so good from my Berkeley projectionist job as I had to also pick up the popcorn boxes under the seats and sweep up too. The earlier three thousand plus miles on the Enfield bike put wear on my lower back facets. A lot of bending working the theater, and my back ‘went out’ A doctor I visited told me to have a lot of bed rest, cold packs and of course, I lost the theater job. I did not know about workman’s comp and the owners were not telling me either.

After I began to heal, I was invited to go on plane rides with a pilot that had a room down the hall in the mansion. We flew into various places and it was a thrill to fly alongside an expert pilot. He flew with the German Luftwaffe in WWII. We flew sideways through Yellowstone once.

He was curious about my extensive radio background and asked me to build a portable radio that is used for ground to air communication and also ground to ground. I was paid good money just to do that in the desert for his smuggling operation. Perfectly safe and harmless marijuana from Mexico. It was almost legal in California and everyone smoked it. Why not?

I got to meet the ground crew on a practice run and they were older and liked to carry around wheel guns. They parked a miles away from the end of an inland landing strip with limited tower presence, and I went up to my designated hill.

A perfect contact to the plane and the ground crew. They didn’t know a thing about communications and just got frustrated and drove back to a rendezvous area. The plane landed spent a short time, did a 180 and roared away. I had an odd feeling about this, and so went out to where the plane made a U turn. The sand was packed and hard and when I puttered up I saw a lot of ‘sea bags’ in the moonlight.

Somehow I buried all of them but two and took those to the rendezvous area. Knocking on the camper door, I got a gun in my face. I proclaimed what I had done and I unloaded the two sea bags. Something illegal for certain. VW beetles are rather scarce in roominess. They do have good traction and that made traction in that sand easier. I made two more trips and the drill was over. “Well done” the pilot said back at the mansion. I wondered what the bags really had inside and was told it was smuggled pot from Mexico! The money man was a famous rock star, Sly Stone who lived right across the bay in San Francisco.

Not too much later, I was really getting used to the money with the pilot and his girlfriend, and whole business. Rent was not an issue and I was wanted as a team member. Just like being useful back on board ship. There was a lot of my back pain and the team got me comfy with a powdery pain reliever. Heroin.

The pilot that paid the rent was very kind to me and the heroin was very pleasant and I liked it, a lot. One day, in my room alone, I was eager for another snort of the powder and heard a clear voice behind me say: “Life or death—choose now” I quickly turned around and there was no one there. The door to the room was still closed. I stared at the pain reliever and remembered how good I felt using it. The pain of all the rejections in my life as well as my current back issue. I no longer lingered on my recent Minneapolis fiance that I met just after discharge that ran off with an actor from the Guthrie and my hard childhood trauma. It was more than pleasant to not be consumed with any pain.

After a short while, it was obvious what the voice meant and I said “life?” My addiction was gone instantly and there was no withdrawal either. Of course it was the Lord saving me for His plan. I bundled up the remaining heroin and took it down the hall to the pilot’s room. “I don’t need this” and the pilot was surprised with an odd expression on his face. Another friend introducing me to drugs. I never searched out those things, they found me. No income and shunned by the pilot and co-pilot (RAF vet)

Obviously, I saw homelessness coming and I bought an old International pickup truck and built a camper in the bed. It was finished and cozy with French doors on the tailgate area and those two rugs I thought I bought from the earlier resident in what was now my room. I slept on the narrow one. Wool Oriental. Class again. There was even a skylight of Plexiglas and windows on the French doors in the back. The couple that I replaced in the mansion lived down in the flats and helped me build the camper. A chop saw, jig saw, some hand tools and a Swiss army knife did the job in short order. Time to get mobile.

After being told to leave the mansion, a new job came into view. Playing guitar in front of the Safeway grocery store in Oakland for while and garnering enough change to buy a can of Dinty Moore beef stew, drive over the bay bridge and park at McClure’s beach. Enough money for Bridge tools and gas too.

Open those French doors, get out the little one burner stove and enjoy an ocean like one I so recently used to be on. I still have a can of it now and then a half century later. Looks and tastes the same. Julie is amazed I would eat the stuff but it IS nutritious and the potatoes stay firm in the sauce.

The chow was OK. Plain but it satisfied. Out of the mansion and into homelessness. Not by choice, but it worked. Sometimes people would put groceries in the open guitar case. A banana or two, things like that.

The smugglers acquaintances found out where my new venue was. They offered me sympathy for the loss of my ‘job’ and said they had a place for me to stay and clean up a in ‘the city’. The tenant was gone for a few weeks and I enjoyed the luxury of a real house. A few days later, there was a knock on the door and I opened it up to a well dressed man with a pistol in my face and a badge to back it up. Just like the movies with cars parked diagonally and other guys in suits next to them.

The official from Federal immigration told me “Hold it right there. He called me by the pilot’s name from the mansion job. After a ‘pleasant’ conversation in the living room, I convinced the government men with the badges that the pilot had left the country with my girl. I was a very controlled angry man and it was a good improvised act and they left. One of the other agents was fiddling with the telephone in the living room. The fellow that that was obviously in charge told him to ‘knock it off’. One of the agents came dashing in the door stating: “It never was red!” I realized they were confused searching for a red truck. My truck was green. I had painted it with a brush under the eucalyptus trees up in Tilden park. It started out primer black. Pretty good job painting an old pickup with a brush. The painting was thorough but thick here and there. Brush was a toss.

The pilot’s truck was in Mexico by then. Later, after all the afternoon excitement, I was interested’ in leaving and looking for a broom to clean up for my unknown host, I found some book sized plastic bags stacked in the closet about waist high. I then knew what was in the sea bags! I grabbed my meager belongings and my guitar and decided to hit the road with my homemade camper. Quickly.

It seemed that I had been set up to make sure disappeared for a while. The shower had hot water and the pressure was good too. But It seemed prudent to leave. The broom went quickly back into the closet and it was time to head back across the bay bridge. Safeway was waiting for my Martin D-28 rosewood guitar. It still has a good tone.

I lived in the camper for a while, and played at the food market. A bully from Oakland approached me as I was playing an old country blues song. He said; “whatcho gonna do if I take dat guitar?” Big guy. With conviction and eye contact, I told that man: “I’ll just fight you for it till one of us dies” After a stare down, the man turned away and said “That’s cool” Oh well, work place harassment. That Martin was the only thing that allowed me to make it for the can of stew, gas, and bridge tolls. Death and taxes. One or the other, nothing new. Bluffing worked in Kansas and I am good at it. Poker face. Actually, I meant it and he saw that in my calm demeanor.

An old friend of Bruce’s found me at the Oakland Safeway sidewalk and he had a big sack of rice with him. Change of menu. He said: “Want to get out of here and go with me to a commune in Oregon?” Sure! We put the bag of rice in the back of the camper and headed off to Eugene.

Another adventure ensued and that was the end of that part of the motorcycle pilgrimage. Off to live with the hippies up north in Eugene. A typical commune of the sixties story. 30 people in one house and with one bathroom. Shortly back to Minneapolis via Omaha. Next stop, West bank. Check out ’40 acres of musicians’ It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Motorcycle Pilgrimage chapter 4

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment




Bruce left a week or so after we arrived in Berkeley. He had enough adventure after our ride out. I am not certain how he got back. He stayed over in town at Earl Crabb’s (Humbeads Map of the world creator) place for a while and in Hollywood at John Braheny’s. After that, we lost touch. I stayed on at the mansion on Shasta Road in Berkeley.

I got a good job at the local art theater as a projectionist. We showed odd films like ‘The Apu Trilogy’ and it was fun. I knew carbon Arc’s as that was what we used on our ships to signal night or day. They were bigger than the movie projectors. Bright.

I Showed a picture about a crazed sniper that had a scene where he was shooting a movie projectionist just as he was peeking through a small window to see the next switchover to the second projector. It’s old tech. There are small white dots in the upper frame of the movie, on the third dot I would pull the lever to turn one on and the other one off. In the movie, the sniper was drawing his bead at that changeover time. Exactly. I started crouching down and getting weirded out. Post production staff humor.

    I had to clean up all the popcorn boxes after the show and it took a toll on my back. I was most in a front bend from all the riding and bouncing about as well. I got some doctoring and workman’s comp for a while. I had to lie on a window seat bench at the mansion until Charlie moved out. I got his room and things were doing OK. An interesting German pilot was in another room down the hall and he had a fireplace.

    There were other tenants. An English professor that taught at the college and an odd girl that had emotional fits now and then. She would throw herself down the stairway on occasion and sob at the bottom. I went over and held her until she calmed down once or twice. I knew what she needed as I can be like that. Self esteem and frustration in communication for sure. The other tenements were lase and used to it. I was used to the feeling from childhood. I am worthless, unloved.

    The owners were overseas acquiring art work of some sort and life there was working out for me. It seemed to fit as I was another art fixture in the house as were we all. Musicians, Professors, An ex Fighter pilot from WWII and the like. Nice place, fireplaces everywhere and you could see the San Francisco bay from the western windows. 5 Million dollars plus even then. Rent was affordable!

    I fell in with a crowd of Jaguar owners at the local coffee shop (Mr. Peets first one on the Northside) and they, of course, were as crazy as the rest of the Bay Area people were. Janis Joplin, Big Brother and the holding company, Grace Slick and Jimi Hendrix. Sly stone was somehow connected with the fighter pilot.

    It was gloriously crazy in 1968 and I was finally where I wanted to be. Living with people that were on the same path of Timothy Leary’s dreams of “Smash your brains, Crack Em’” LSD, pot and other drugs flowed down Lombard street to Haight Ashbury and then across the bay bridge to Berkeley. Mario Stavio and the free speech movement and my new friend that played Boogie Woogie piano, crazy Mike. A Chinese Jag mechanic in the mix and I fit right in with my Martin D-28.

    Joan Baez played a parlor Martin and she was . Bob Zimmerman was still back in Minneapolis at the 10 o’clock scholar getting warmed up for world fame. It was pretty good.

    One night, crazy mike had us jumping with his piano. It was an upstairs apartment and there came a knock on his door. It was the police. They told him after 10 he had to stop making ‘noise’ as the neighborhood was not on board with bold rhythm. Oscar Peterson stuff with swing extraordinary skill.

    The next night, at precisely ten o’clock, mike blasted out the window with a big battery bullhorn. “You may have noticed that I have stopped playing” He did and we loved it.

    Joan Baez played a parlor Martin and she was the musical ballerina of folk. Bob Zimmerman (Dylan) was still back in Minneapolis at the 10 o’clock scholar getting warmed up for world fame with Joan and other class acts. They all had National Enquirer possibilities but Rolling Stone was rolling of off the press along with Mad Magazine. Hipsters and hucksters abounded in the bay area and I got entwined with Sly Stone after a little more adventure. Any musician that was riding the surf roaring under the golden gate was there.

    Music was on the move in the bay area and we were riding that wave. We thought we were pretty neat and inside the sine wave of progress and coolness. Rebels with a cause. Obnoxious with charisma.

    It was pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

    photo of Bruce Berglund and his guitar.

    Motorcycle Pilgrimage chapter 2

    / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

    Sitting at their campsite, Bruce and I talked the day over. “we agreed no weapons with” We wondered what we would do if the local boys came as told they would. “We’ve got the tent poles that we aren’t using tonight!” I believed this was Bruce’s solution. “We can carry those poles under our right arms so that only the metal Farrell’s show! They will think we have shotguns” We wondered if this was possible. “Is that the best idea you’ve got?” It was settled and the we settled in our sleeping bags under the stars on this moonlit night.

    Sure enough, around midnight, the sound of slamming pickup doors was heard from the parking lot of the campground. “Well, here we go” We started walking towards the young toughs side by side on the pathway. Our tent poles pointed at the ground and the moonlight reflecting off of metal exposed. The metal that was just meant to join one pole to another. “ Don’t shoot till we’re a little closer” Bruce said in a very loud whisper. Those small town punks took one look at us and those pickup doors slammed shut again. There was a roar of a small block engine, and the townies were gone.

    Not long afterward, the town cop showed up with his squad and somewhat surprised asked: “You boys OK?” Sure, quiet night officer we answered. Puzzled and baffled that weren’t a couple of bodies lying about, the town cop nodded his head and drove off. Tipped off by the townies, just checking for the carnage. we decided to break camp early and slipped away at midnight. Headed for the Oklahoma panhandle and close to the famous route 66. Seemed a safe and promising thing to do.

    The next town was indeed in Oklahoma and it was a bright Sunday morning when Bruce pulled over to the side of the road with his engine racing up and down. “What’s going on Bruce?” It seemed the BMW did not want to connect the engine with the desired ahead motion. Sitting next to one another on the ground of the well groomed grass, we began to disassemble the drive train of the bike. We were getting pretty good at those sorts of things. A short time later Bruce announced: “It’s the woodruff key on the driveshaft, it’s sheared off!”

    Looking at the Sunday afternoon one horse town was not encouraging. There seemed to be tumble weeds blowing down the short main street angled off the highway, no one was in sight and there was no traffic heard nor in sight. Great. Suddenly, A tall young man was in back of them asking “What’s the matter boys?” They looked at the young man and said rather sadly, “sheared a woodruff key on the driveshaft.” That man didn’t even blink about a motorcycle having a driveshaft and in a calm voice said: “My father owns the hardware store and I’ve got the keys, lets go see what we can do”

    Astonished, they followed him and his keys as he walked down an alley to a door and opened it. Turning to them, he said: “go to that Graymills cabinet over there and pull open that top drawer. There, back in the third compartment, 8 millimeter.?.take a few” They took about three of them. Back to the bikes Bruce put the key in the driveshaft and fit with a perfect ‘snick’ We turned to eagerly thank the tall young man and he was nowhere in sight. It came out as: “Hey Bruce…were did he go?” It wasn’t until decades later I laughed and finally got the line “My father owns the hardware store and I’ve got the keys” Of course, the Lord, our Father owns everything!

    (To be continued) Norm Peterson / Jack Gator